


Twenty Lashes

by polemisti



Series: Lucien has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Lucien Vanserra-centric, M/M, Minor Lucien/Rhysand, Missing Scene, One Night Stands, POV Lucien (ACoTaR), Pain, Partner Betrayal, Poor Lucien Vanserra, Sad Lucien Vanserra, Torture, Whipping, Whump, but not really, lucien is smart, past tamlin/rhys, takes place under the mountain, tamlin is bad at loving, they still hate each other lmao, which is not an excuse for his actions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polemisti/pseuds/polemisti
Summary: “Tamlin will perform the act… of course.” Tamlin. Lucian shot his head up, surprised. Amarantha’s eyes widened a fraction, and then she laughed.“By the cauldron, Lucien, you have it bad.” Lucien ignored her, and turned to Tamlin. He was standing beside her, straight as a rod and emanating a vicious fury Lucien had not seen in years. It shone through his eyes alone, as he looked ahead.or:To save Lucien, Tamlin must give him twenty lashes.Takes place around chapter 37 of ACOTAR
Relationships: Rhysand/Lucien Vanserra, Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra
Series: Lucien has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896466
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	1. The First Trial

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just hurt without comfort lmao  
> Please go back and read the tags

“You know,” Amarantha mused from her throne, “For all the spy-craft you conduct across these lands, you are rather terrible at concealing your own secrets.” Her face was soft, and her voice almost kind as it floated melodiously to Lucien. He didn’t believe the bitch for a second.

He would have spit at her feet, had he had control of his mouth—of anything. His body was held in its position by a magic he did not wish to understand. Kneeling before her, shirt long torn from him, head bowed. He was bleeding, somewhere; He barely felt it. His magic had once again been stripped from him. He was going to die. It was surprising he hadn’t already. 

Amarantha was speaking. Something sinister, he was sure. Lucien didn’t bother to listen—the only form of rebellion he was offered.

“Tamlin will perform the act… of course.”  _ Tamlin _ . Lucian shot his head up, surprised when the movement was allowed by the constricting magic. Amarantha’s eyes widened a fraction, and then she laughed.

“By the cauldron, Lucien, you have it  _ bad _ .” Lucien ignored her, and turned to Tamlin. He was standing beside her, straight as a rod and emanating a vicious fury Lucien had not seen in years. It shone through his eyes alone, as he looked ahead. He did not return Lucien's confused gaze. “Since you clearly weren’t listening to your queen before this moment, I shall repeat myself.” Amarantha continued. “Though I will have to make it quick, we do have a show to watch.” Lucien felt Amarantha’s gaze bore into him. She was looking at his eye, he noticed. There was a faint smile on her lips, though he could see the sourness in her eyes.  _ Jealous whore. _

“Tamlin here has been so kind as to beg for your life. I,  _ gracious  _ as I am, have granted his request.” She watched Lucien as he absorbed the information. Lucien, in turn, tried to school his expression to the best of his ability. “Well! Aren’t you happy, Lucien?”

Lucien said nothing. Tamlin was too angry; Amarantha was too happy.

“Ugh,” Amarantha scoffed, picking a non-existent piece of lint or dirt from her dress and flicking it away from her. “You take the fun out of everything, Lucy. May I call you that?” She didn’t wait for an answer, smiling wide. “Tamlin here must perform the… alternative punishment… of course.” Her smile only grew. She was enjoying herself. “Twenty lashes!”

Lucien sighed imperceptibly, sagging slightly with relief. He would lose no limbs, no eyes. Tamlin would be as gentle as he was allowed.

“Would now suffice, or shall we reschedule?” Her eyes twinkled with excitement. Lucien saw Rhysand out of the corner of his eye. He was leaning against a stone wall, grinning slightly.

Amarantha did not allow Lucien to glower in silence; she waited expectantly for a response. Lucien didn’t allow himself to feel the burning humiliation in his chest and neck as he said, quietly, but in a tone which reverberated across the throne room, “Now.”

“Oh, lovely. I  _ do  _ hate wasting time.”

Still kneeling and bound by nauseating magic, his body was spun around. He faced the girl, Claire, now. He looked to meet her dead eyes, and only then remembered that they had been ripped from her skull a week ago, back when she still could scream. He fixed his gaze on a necklace the corpse wore. It was long bloodied.

He heard Tamlin walk. He heard Tamlin stop—someone handed him the whip. He heard Tamlin begin to walk again—he stopped. The court chattered and whispered amongst themselves. Rhysand narrowed his eyes in the corner of Lucien's vision—he noticed Lucien’s gaze and winked.  _ Bastard _ .

“Don’t hold back, Tamlin…” Amarantha said, consolingly. “I would hate to give Lucien twenty more lashes. Rhysand would have to do them, of course.”

The first crack of the whip stung. The second, third, and fourth were consecutively worse. Still, Lucien remained silent.

“Harder, Tamlin,” Amarantha sang.

Tamlin struck harder. Lucien grunted, softly. He felt tears well up in his eye as he strained to keep his gaze locked on the bloody necklace. He tried to focus on the feeling of hot blood pouring down his back, rather than the gouging hot stinging thudding awful pain. He was unsuccessful.

Amarantha sighed, bored. “Are you a high lord or a dryad? If he doesn’t scream by the end of this, Rhysand will show your pitiful little ex-lover what a whipping looks like.”

Lucien could prevent this if he fake a scream—if he put on the show Amarantha so desired. His pride would not allow it. He kept his teeth clenched.

Tamlin brought down the whip, harder and harder and harder. It was a mercy, Lucien reminded himself. He was trying to get him to scream. Rhysand would be much worse. Even as he brought the whip down, Tamlin was protecting him.

“You think this is bad?” Lucien grunted out, as loud as he could manage. Every word hurt. “You should see what he does to me when he fucks me.” He spit blood on the stone before him. From biting his cheek, he realized.

Amarantha said nothing.  _ Good _ . Lucien hoped she was  _ furious _ . For the first time, he  _ wished _ he could see her face.

Tamlin brought the whip down again. Even harder. Whatever number they were on was lost to Lucien. He was losing blood, fast. Claire and her necklace had duplicated, as had everything else. He swallowed fire with every breath he took. He could not even dig his fingernails in his hands to distract himself from the pain—he was still held taut by magic.

“Not. Even. Halfway. There.” Amarantha taunted.

Tamlin brought the whip down twice in rapid succession. The speed did not negate the force, however. The blows were as powerful as before, and hurt even more as they cut open already cut flesh.

Lucien grunted. More blood spilled from his mouth. Tamlin brought the whip down two more times. Lucien couldn’t keep the scream in his chest any longer. It escaped his lungs pitifully and loud. The lesser fae cheered. Tamlin brought the whip down again. Lucien screamed again.

He could not keep track of the blows, after that. Eventually, even the screams stopped, replaced with soft whimpers which the entire court strained to hear, delighted.

Eventually, it ended, and Lucien collapsed on the hard stone.

* * *

He woke up in his room. It was bare and small, no different from the day it had been given to him weeks ago. The only color came from a candle, glowing softly with an orange light in the corner, and the sheets of his bed, fully stained red.

He shifted, agonizingly, to his stomach, and passed out once more.

When he woke again, the blood had dried. The bleeding had, thank the cauldron, stopped, though the pain had lessened only a fraction. He tried to push himself up. He didn’t even feel the pillow as he passed out for a third time.

“This is really quite pathetic,” Lucien heard through a fog as he woke.

_ Rhysand. _

“Get  _ out. _ ”

“Funny, that’s  _ exactly  _ what Feyre said when I visited  _ her _ .”

Lucien didn’t have the energy to flash with rage.

Rhysand crouched effortlessly beside Lucien’s bed. They were eye-level now, though Lucien saw everything sideways. He turned his head so he was staring at his other wall. If it looked childish, Lucien couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Lucien repeated himself, bored and tired. “Get out, Rhysand.”

“I hate when you call me that,” Rhysand admitted with a grin, reappearing on the other side of the room, back within Lucien’s line of sight. The high lord’s gaze flicked from Lucien’s marred back to his eyes. “Look at you. You should have come to me all those years ago, heartbroken and scared. What has Tamlin given you? An ugly mask and a golden eye; You are emissary of  _ nothing _ , spymaster of  _ nothing _ .” Rhysands voice quieted to a soft whisper, “I could have given you so much more than you had with him.”

It took a sizable amount of effort, and perhaps the only reason he was able to do it was because it was completely and utterly unexpected. In a flash, Lucien had Rhysand on the bed below him, pinned by the throat.

Rhysand grinned as he looked up into Lucien’s wild eyes.

“Would you have done this?” Lucien gestured with his free hand to the blood on the sheets.

“I would have never hurt you as he did,” Rhysand said with such sincerity that Lucien knew he thought he had said the right thing.

“In refusing temporary pain, you subject me to an enteral death.” Lucien tightened his grip on Rhysand’s throat for a moment, before releasing his grip and rolling off the high lord. He winced as the mattress met his marred back. Less than a moment passed before Lucien felt a weight on his hips. Rhysand now straddled him as Lucien had. Instead of his throat, Rhysand pressed a hand on Lucien’s chest. He did not press down with much, if any pressure, but the pressure he did use caused his back to sting with such agony he thought for a moment his sheets had been replaced with shards of glass.

Rhysand lowered his chest to meet Lucien’s. His breath ghosted Lucien’s ear.

“You will be lucky to make it out of this mountain alive. Even luckier to make it out with your poor lover. I would make friends while you still can.”

Rhysand was gone before Lucien could reply.


	2. The Second Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between the second and third trial of ACOTAR

When Lucien woke the next time, he was alone. His back and lungs still stung miserably. While the bleeding had stopped days ago, the wounds were not healing. Every movement, every  _ breath _ , was agony. He was on his stomach—he must have moved into such a position while unconscious. He missed Tamlin with an aching pain which was almost worse and more vicious than the wounds on his back. Feyre was helpless. She would die, and Lucien would die, and Tamlin would become a broken slave to a psychotic whore queen. It was not long before he passed out again.

Again he woke, and again he was alone. Again he fell asleep. He was hungry. Thirsty, too. He could not stand, and he knew no one would be brave, or stupid, enough to bring him food or water. Perhaps he would die here, weak in this bed. He could only assume the only thing keeping him from healing was Amarantha’s stolen magic. It would not be surprising if she wished for him to die slowly and alone.

Eventually he woke and he was not alone. Unfortunately, it was Rhysand who was in the room. Lucien groaned, and tried to make it sound like one of annoyance, rather than one of pain.

He was sitting, cross legged, on the corner of the bed. There was a book in his hand, which he thumbed through with little interest. The high lord did not look up at Lucien’s groan.

Lucien grasped the sheets tightly to pull himself up, and it took him a moment to realize something was different. Where before, the sheets had been stained red with long dried blood, they were now fresh and clean under his grasp.

“Dick,” Lucien muttered.

Rhysand only laughed softly under his breath.

“Have you grown so bored that you wish to spend your time watching a man die?” Lucien continued. He gave up attempting to sit up, the pain too great.

“So  _ dramatic _ , Lucien. Perhaps I just wished for a quiet place to read.”

“ _ Perhaps _ you could attempt the space between Amarantha’s legs. I can’t imagine she’s rushing to moan your name aloud.”

“What a sharp  _ wit _ , Lucien. Shall I attempt between your legs, or are those reserved solely for your high lord these days?”

Lucien was growing bored, and his eyelids were already drooping towards sleep.

“Go away, Rhys…” He fell into a murky unconsciousness before he could finish the high lord’s name.

“You’re not getting any better…” Rhysand sang when Lucien woke up again.

“Then do me a favor and grant me a death without your perpetual chatter,” Lucien groaned, shoving his head farther into his pillow to drown the incessant high lord out.

Rhysand laughed. “You will die without my help.”

“Promise?”

Rhysand laughed again, but stopped suddenly. He didn’t even _breathe_. Lucien turned his head to look. His gaze was slightly wild, and a small grin was growing on his lips. He melted into shadows before Lucien could ask what had excited the high lord so much, and he fell into unconsciousness before he could investigate the matter himself.

Perhaps Amarantha had grown bored holding court without Lucien’s unyielding wit, for his wounds began to heal the next day.

Tamlin did not find him—did not search him out at the parties that followed. Lucien understood. There was nothing either of them could do. Then Feyre came,  _ presented _ by Rhysand. Tamlin looked like he would collapse the mountain on them all, if he could. And when he forced her to drink the wine… forced her to dance and smile and lose herself for the night… 

“He’s going to kill you,” Lucien said once the festivities had ceased.

Rhysand only smirked, violet eyes glittering in the candle light. Lucien had found him in his room, undressing. He shrugged off his sheer shirt, folding it and sliding it into a drawer.

“I’m serious,” Lucien said, and he was. Whatever game Rhysand was playing was a dangerous one.

“Thank you for the concern, Lucien,” Rhysand crooned, stalking over to him in three long steps. Lucien side stepped before the high lord could place a hand on his cheek . Rhys let the hand fall, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “I see you’ve healed quite nicely.”

“If you had any wits at all, you would release Feyre from that bargain and scrub that tattoo from her arm.”

“Always the emissary, Lucien. Does it ever get  _ boring _ ?”

“With you constantly fucking everything up?  _ Never _ .” Lucien hissed back, “I’ll only say it one more time Rhysand. Release her. When this ends badly I don’t want to end up in the crossfire.”

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed.

“You  _ care _ about her…” Rhysand paused, “No. You care about _him_. You love him so much that you’re  _ here _ , begging  _ me _ to release her so that  _ Tamlin  _ may have his war prize when this is done. Have you finally admitted to yourself that you are not enough for him?” He said the words so sweetly that it took half a second for Lucien to realize the jab for what it was.

Lucien would never admit how correct Rhysand was, on both fronts. He did like Feyre. Perhaps as nothing more than a good friend, but she was someone he cared about nonetheless. And still, he was asking for Tamlin. As he had kneeled in the past on behalf of his high lord, he would kneel now too, if asked. Too much was at stake—if Tamlin was too focused on his rage towards Rhysand to attack the true villain—that was assuming, of course, that Feyre completed all three trials. Either way, too much was riding on Feyre and Tamlin doing everything perfectly to allow Rhysand’s scheming in the mix. He couldn’t be this stupid—even if he was Amarantha’s whore. Though that in itself was a tactical decision—it  _ had  _ to be. What game was he play— _ oh _ .

Lucien’s eyes widened just a fraction, and he stilled. His back stung and his head ached. A moment later, he turned on his heel and left the room without another word.

He visited Feyre the next morning.

* * *

Lucien fought like hell when they dragged him away. He screamed vulgar curses and lashed out violently with the shards of magic he could access. It was fruitless. Tamlin sat beside Amarantha, looking pained at the sight before him. Rhysand leaned against a nearby pillar, looking bored.

No one explained. They bound and blindfolded him until they hadn’t. Until Feyre stood across from him, with three riddles before her.

_ Shit _ .

He was going to die. She was too, and then Tamlin would become a slave and that  _ whore _ would  _ win _ . Feyre couldn’t fucking  _ read _ and  _ that _ was going to end the world.  _ Stupid humans and their stupid illiteracy. _

“Just pick one!” he heard someone shout. No—he had shouted it himself.  _ Genius, _ he criticized himself.

This was going to hurt. There was no magic to get him out of this. Just luck. A thirty three percent chance he would live. Zero percent if she didn’t pick at all. He was going to die slowly and  _ painfully _ and Tamlin would be forced to  _ watch. _ If only—if only he had been able to say goodbye,  _ really _ say goodbye. But—

Everything became quiet. And then it all became very loud again.

He was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about midway through ACOMAF as I post this, so please keep that in mind while commenting, and don't spoil anything.  
> Though, I do love and appreciate feedback, :)


	3. The Final Trial

Lucien watched as Feyre skirted the edges of the party. He watched as Tamlin appeared next to her.  _ Stupid. _ Tamlin was being  _ stupid _ . He continued to watch as Tamlin left, and as Feyre followed. They were going to be  _ killed. _ Amarantha would find them and they were going to be  _ killed. _ Lucien, too, just for knowing them.

He took a step—just one—to follow after them. To split them up before their teary reunion damned them all to an eternal life under this awful mountain. Out of the corner of his eye,  _ Rhysand _ . Lucien paused. The high lord looked bored as he maneuvered the faerie out of his lap and stood, wiping crumbs off his pants. His gaze shifted lazily to Lucien. He winked, and was gone.

The fact that Tamlin didn’t kill Rhysand when Amarantha and him found Feyre and the high lord covered in paint confirmed everything Lucien suspected. He found Rhysand again anyway—once again, in his chambers.

“Lucien, come in!” Rhysand said cheerfully as Lucien strode towards him, already halfway across the room.

“Did you touch her?”

The look on Rhysand’s face said—unabashed—‘ _ guilty! And proud of it!’ _ He just shrugged and turned around, grabbing a book from atop his set of drawers and walking past the emissary.

Lucien grabbed his arm before he could pass him completely. Rhysand stopped, bored.

“Rhysand,” Lucien said lowly, “Did you take advantage of the situation?”

Rhysand rolled his eyes.

“No.”

Lucien let go of his arm. As if he could’ve done anything to the high lord. The man who may be smarter than them  _ all  _ behind those bored eyes. Lucien turned to leave. This time, it was Rhysand who grabbed Lucien’s arm. His grip was soft, but Lucien was under no delusions that he could escape it, or that he had any control over the situation at all.

Rhysand’s breath was hot and smelled of mulled wine as he spoke in Lucien’s ear, “Were you jealous of the human tonight, Lucien? Jealous of the way he pushed her back against a wall and rutted like a dog into  _ her _ instead of you?”

Lucien tried to wrench his arm away, to no avail. Rhysand only tightened his grip.

“Has he gotten any better in the last few centuries?”  _ Right.  _ Lucien had forgotten Tamlin and Rhysand had fucked. Before they were both high lords. Before Lucien was even born.

“Does he still do that thing with his leg?” Unfortunately, Lucien knew exactly what thing Rhysand was talking about. “He does!” Lucien didn’t know if Rhysand had gleaned that from his mind or from his face. “I wonder if he’s learned that does nothing for his partners and simply doesn’t care, or if he’s still ignorant to his shortcomings.”

“Rhys—”

“If Feyre fails tomorrow, that last shred of hope you keep so secure inside of yourself—that last, mangled, bloody shred will wither and die. And we will both stay down here forever.”  _ Trapped. _ Feyre could  _ fail _ . She had nearly failed twice already.

Rhysand released his grip on Lucien’s arm and walked to the corner of his room to pour himself a drink.

Lucien did not move, not an  _ inch _ . Rhysand was right. If Feyre failed tomorrow, that miniscule, bloody shred of hope Lucien had been holding onto so _ tightly would  _ die. Tonight,  _ tonight _ , could be the last time he felt anything but rage and bitterness and sorrow, and he was spending it with  _ Rhysand  _ of all people. He could return to his room, pray to the cauldron that Tamlin found  _ him  _ too, wanted to fuck  _ him too _ . But he knew Tamlin. He knew his high lord would not come, not tonight. Maybe not ever.

She could succeed, but even then, Amarantha would not let Tamlin go. She would fight with tooth and nail until the very end, and Tamlin could easily die in the ensuing battle, even with his powers returned.

He looked up, broken and furious, and met Rhysand’s own bored eyes as the high lord evaluated him. His shield, fortified and sturdy, was still up. He knew that wouldn’t stop the high lord, even stripped of his powers like he was. Though, it wasn’t like Lucien had anything to hide. Rhysand knew his loyalties, everyone did. You didn’t need the high lord’s powers to see them shining like a beacon from his soul.

Rhysand set his drink down on the small bar cart and once against approached Lucien, who still stood, frozen. With a much gentler touch than he had used on Lucien’s arm, Rhysand set a hand on Lucien’s face. Slowly, he ran a thumb over the parts of Lucien’s scar not hidden by the fox mask adhered to his face. Even slower, he trailed his hand lower, and rested his thumb on Lucien’s Adam’s apple, pressing down with just the faintest hint of pressure. He shifted his gaze, then, slowly trailing his gaze up from the emissary’s Adam's apple, up his jaw and scar, over his mask and finally,  _ finally _ , his eyes. He did not move a centimeter more. The high lord’s face gave nothing away.

_ Your move, Lucien. _

Silence. Only their breath, too soft for this sharp and tangy mountain.

The emissary was like lightning when he moved, pushing Rhysand onto the bed behind them. He followed, then, climbing on top of the high lord, who’s unreadable expression melted into a knowing smirk. In less than a moment, they had switched positions, and Rhysand’s hand was once again placed gently against Lucien’s Adam’s apple, which bobbed under his thumb.

Lucien rasped, voice rough and still shattered, “Rhysand—”

Rhysand’s thumb pressed on Lucien’s throat until pain bloomed from the point. His eyes were sweet, but his voice was cold as he spoke.

“Don’t call me that.”

Silence. Their breath, louder now.

“Rhys,” Lucien rasped, and felt the pressure abate slightly.

A moment later, the pressure was released entirely, replaced with wet heat. Rhysand—Rhys’  _ mouth _ . Lucien’s groan was stuttering and broken, and he heard Rhys chuckle darkly at the sound. The high lord’s laugh reverberated in him, his mouth exploring Lucien’s jaw and neck.

_ Tamlin. _ He was betraying Tamlin. His high lord. This could easily be his last night alive and he was spending it with his high lord’s enemy. And if it wasn’t his last night alive, if Feyre  _ won? _ How would he tell him? How could he explain what he had done, his  _ betrayal _ —Lucien felt a jolt of pain in his ear.

Rhys was  _ biting _ his earlobe. He met the high lord’s eyes, which looked amused, and slightly annoyed.

“You’re thinking too loudly, Lucien. Do us both a favor and shut up.”

A jolt of pleasure which he felt from his spine to the back of his  _ eyes _ was enough motivation to allow the guilt, the  _ betrayal _ , to fall away as Rhys continued his exploration. He could feel like shit in the morning.

* * *

Tamlin looked different the next night, the night of the final trial. Did he know, somehow? Had Rhys—Rhysand,  _ told  _ him? Had he taunted him with the information? Did Amarantha know? Would Lucien be punished for playing with the queen’s pet, her  _ whore? _ Tamlin wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Amarantha and Feyre.  _ Fuck. _ The emissary sneaked a glance to Rhys. He, too, was flicking his gaze between Amarantha and Feyre, bored.

Three bodies.

_ Come on Feyre. You’ve got this. _

Two down. One left.

_ Tamlin _ .

Not beside Amarantha, but under the third hood.

_ He would—he could—Feyre, you know. You already know the answer. We tried to tell you for months. You  _ **_know._ **

She figured it out, if that look on her face was any indication. Lucien almost cried from relief.

No. _No._ _You cheating, lying, whore queen. Feyre,_ ** _no._**

“Love.”

Bones  _ breaking _ . Chaos. Silence

Seven embers of power. A single breath. Feyre’s breath.

It was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be writing more in this series, and probably changing the name to reflect the Lucien-centric themes of the stories I've written so far, and plan to write in the future.
> 
> I really appreciate all the love ive gotten, both from ao3 and the people who found this fic from tiktok, thank you so much for taking the time to read this, and I hope I can continue to entertain you in the future.
> 
> Please comment with your thoughts, but keep in mind I haven't finished ACOMAF as I publish this, so I don't know what's gonna happen canonically, and I would appreciate if you didn't spoil.


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